


That Might Have Been My Fate

by Hekate1308



Series: Different Beginnings [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, Implied/Referenced Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-20
Updated: 2013-11-21
Packaged: 2018-01-02 04:33:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 22,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1052572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hekate1308/pseuds/Hekate1308
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John never met Sherlock Holmes. Instead, he met Sebastian Moran, who introduced him to Jim Moriarty. AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

There are choices and decisions that affect our lives in a way we can't fail to notice; that give it a turn for the better or the worse, that make events turn out in a way we could never have predicted. Sometimes, these decisions are important enough in their own right: a marriage proposal, travelling, moving. We know what they entail, know that they will change the course of our destiny.  
But then, there are the decisions that seem so normal, and are usually seen as everyday occurrences, that the one making the choice would never guess it's about to alter his life. Usually, this type of choices is made on an utterly normal day.

For John Watson, this day was the 29th January.

He could have returned home through the park after his therapy session. If he had, he'd have met an old friend, who'd then have introduced him to a man he would move in and solve crimes with not twenty-four hours later. He'd have found a new purpose in life, and, over the course of the years, a new family. He'd have been happy, some would say crazy, but still perfectly content and glad to have met Mike Stamford all those years ago.

But he didn't return through the park.

Instead, he chose to walk through the streets, which took a little longer, but he didn't have anything to do anyway. Naturally, he had no way of knowing what had just passed him by.

He spent the evening staring at the empty blog entry in front of him, thinking about what he could possibly write down. Today had been like any other day, he hadn't met anyone, he hadn't even talked to anyone, really, expect to Ella, and he very much doubted that the therapy did anything to help him.

His phone rang, and he sighed. There was only one person who called him, and Harry would most likely be drunk right now.

She was.

"Johnny" she slurred, "I jus' tried to call Clara and she didn' wanna talk to me – she just hun' up..."

"That might be because you are drunk, Harry" John tried to explain patiently, already knowing it was hopeless.

"Bu' she – "

"Harry, you left her" John snapped, his patience wearing thin. "You can't expect her to be happy when you call, especially when you happen to be drunk. She insisted you get sober before you married, remember?"

"Your' not nice to me". She apparently started to cry, but John had had enough, and he hung up and ignored her next five calls, until she seemed to get the message. He shut down his laptop and put it in the drawer he kept his gun, probably staring at it a bit too long. He knew he shouldn't be thinking like this, shouldn't feel so utterly useless, but there was nothing else he could do. He couldn't work, not with this limp and his shaking hand – he was a doctor, for God's sake, his hand shouldn't be shaking when he was treating a patient – he couldn't even sleep properly, and he was eating less and less.

And if Ella should ever find out what he thought when he saw the gun in his desk drawer, he'd end up in a mental hospital.

He tried to imagine a different life, with a wife and children and a house, but felt empty even while doing it, which scared him. He'd always looked forward to the future, even when he'd been in Afghanistan. And now, now it was almost as if his future had been taken away from him. He didn't know why or how, but that was how it felt.

Nothing changed over the next few months, and John was feeling more and more useless.

To be honest, he did read about one detective solving the case of the multiple mysterious suicide, right after he'd realized that there was nothing he could do – on January 30th, to be precise – but, other than that...

He spent the next few months trying to convince Ella that he didn't need therapy anymore, only to be told "Let's see".

He didn't know what he was missing, but he somehow felt that he did miss something, without realizing what or why.

Then, one evening, he realized that he couldn't stay locked up in his flat forever, not if he wanted to move on and keep living.

So he went to a pub.

After about an hour, which he spent staring into his pint – and trying to ignore the fact that the only one who seemed to be alone too was a guy with silver hair who kept looking at his phone and typing answers as if his life depended on it – he was approached by another man.

"Hey, don't worry, I'm not trying to flirt with you – but, are you, by any chance, ex-military? Takes one to know one, after all."

John, glad to finally meet someone who would understand what he was going through, shook his hand.

"John. John Watson."

"Moran. Sebastian Moran".

They talked for hours. Sebastian was nice, and he understood John's difficulties in adjusting; told him that "It takes time, buddy"; made him believe there was a life after the army, after all.

John gave him is number, simply because it was nice to have someone to talk to.

Of course, he never could have foreseen what happened next.

It was in the middle of the night, and he'd somehow managed to fall asleep. Then his phone rang.

He grabbed for it, only half-aware what was going on.

"Hello? John Watson speaking."

"John? It's Sebastian. We have an emergency here".

Years later, he still wouldn't be able to explain why he had immediately leaped out of his bed, instead of calling the police or an ambulance; why he'd grabbed his jacket and taken a cab; although, in his darkest hours, when he was being honest with himself, he knew why. He'd missed the excitement, he'd missed being important, he'd missed –

He'd missed being someone people counted on.

So, instead of continuing missing what he could no longer share, he found himself sitting in a cab, urging the cabbie to go faster to the address Sebastian had named.

When he arrived, he didn't even pay attention to the fact that it was a rather run-down neighbourhood, he only tried to get into the building as fast as possible.

Sebastian was waiting for him.

"John. I'd hoped you would show" and if John noticed that his new-found friend wore a certain grave expression, he didn't think about it.

All he thought about, from the moment he was shown into the room where a young man – he couldn't have been older than twenty-five – lay hurt, crying and bleeding, was to help this young man, to make him better, to make the pain go away.

He managed to stop the bleeding – luckily, it was a through-and-through – and gave the young man some painkillers, before he realized what was going on and confronted Sebastian.

"Who is he? What is going on?"

Sebastian just nodded, apparently not caring whether John felt good or bad, and led him into a room without windows.

A pale man was waiting for him. A pale man with dark hair and cold eyes.

"John Watson?"

"Yes" he answered, not ready to disclose any personal information yet.

As it turned out, he didn't have to.

"Recently invalided home from Afghanistan, I hear".

"That's right".

"Sebastian tells me you are a good doctor. You helped out Thomas just a few minutes ago."

"I don't know his name, but if you mean the through-and-through – yes, I believe I managed to help him".

John wasn't a man who felt nervous easily; but this man managed to send goose bumps up his spine, even though, in a weird, he was thankful that his leg didn't hurt him anymore.

"Yes, that's exactly who I meant". The pale man grinned, and another shiver ran down John's spine.

"However" the man added, still grinning, which made what followed somehow sound even more threatening,"if you would ever think to tell the police about what occurred tonight, I might decide to take certain measures..."

John swallowed, and knew that he would die if he gave this man the wrong answer. True, he'd never felt alive until this moment – since he returned to London, that was – but he decided, there and then, that he wouldn't like to die, thank you very much.

The man seemed to read as much in his face, because he rubbed his hand, gave John an even broader grin and exclaimed, "That's settled, then. Doctor Watson, I believe we could be – useful to one another".

And, as much as John hated to admit it, when he was finally escorted home, in the darkness of the night –

He hadn't felt this alive since he returned from the war.

And he didn't think anyone else would make him feel as alive as Sebastian and his weird employer – he'd decided that "employer" was the best description he could come up with, concerning Sebastian's "friend" – had done in a few short hours.

All that was left to do was to accept his lot.


	2. Chapter 2

From this day on, Sebastian called more and more frequently, and John always came running. In his darkest hours, he admitted to himself that he didn't only obey Sebastian and his master because they would kill him if he didn't – he was sure that they had the power to do so and leave no trace behind, though how he came to be sure of this, he didn't know – but because –

Because these nights were the only thing that reminded him what it felt like to be in Afghanistan, when what he was doing actually mattered, when he'd had a purpose. He knew, of course he knew, that he shouldn't be missing the war, but he did. The excitement, the danger. And now, somehow, he'd got a part of that back.

Even if what he was doing was definitely not... legal.

Most of the people he treated – mostly young men, though he had to help a woman occasionally, and once a so-called patient was clearly in his sixties – had gunshot wounds, although a few had been stabbed. And, now and then, he got the feeling that the patient wasn't exactly an associate of Sebastian's, but rather his captive – some of the wounds he had to treat looked suspiciously like having been inflicted during some kind of "interrogation". He should definitely report it. He should call the police.

He didn't.

Because he didn't want to die. And, if he did report it now, he would most likely go to jail himself. Every time he helped and treated someone, there would appear a certain sum in his bank account, which would at least allow him, in time, to rent a nicer flat. He preferred not to think about how Sebastian's boss had managed to get his account number – and have access to it, because the man hadn't seemed like someone to leave traces of his – "business", so he definitely didn't simply walk into a bank and transferred the money just like normal people did.

And he couldn't deny that he certainly made more money than he ever could have hoped for after being invalided home.

His limp and shaking hand had disappeared the day after his first "job" and had yet to make reappearance. John was aware that he should probably worry that, the moment he was threatened by a criminal and he had to stitch someone back together in a run-down neighbourhood, all his symptoms (or most of them, the shot in the shoulder had, after all, not been psychosomatic) disappeared and he felt like a new man, but he decided not to. There were other things to worry about. Like the death threat.

The irony that he only truly wanted to live now, when he had to constantly look over his shoulder to make sure Sebastian's boss wouldn't suddenly decide that he was a security risk after all, wasn't lost on him.

Neither was the fact that, as soon as he told the police or stopped coming when called, he'd been thrown back into the limbo he'd lived in since his return, where the days just blended together and he couldn't sleep and the temptation to take his gun out of his desk became stronger and stronger.

Instead of staring at it, he carried the gun around with him, these days. Better safe than sorry, and he was still a good shot.

He even managed to sleep again, the nightmares had stopped soon after he'd helped Thomas.

Ella and Harry noticed the change in him too, even though Ella still tried to make him write his blog. Needless to say, his adventures would make for a few good entries, but he doubted that Sebastian or his boss would appreciate it.

Harry still called him almost every day, but she was sober some of the time, at least, and apparently relieved that he "hadn't sunk further into depression". He had to bite his lip to keep himself from snorting – if she knew why he was feeling better, why he wasn't feeling useless anymore, she would probably run away screaming.

And then, after about two months, in which he had "assisted" (at least, that was how Sebastian called it) his new "friends" quite a few times, came the night that changed everything, once again.

He was cleaning out a stab wound after having administered painkillers – the knife had barely missed the heart, and the patient was unconscious – in one part of an abandoned warehouse, where the car that was, by now, always sent for him – with tinted windows, so he wouldn't see where they went – had dropped him off, when he heard a commotion outside the door.

Not thinking about it, but acting on the instinct that had served him well in Afghanistan, he let the instruments drop and ran to the door.

When he stepped into the other room, he saw Sebastian and a man he didn't recognize throwing punches at each other.

He knew that Sebastian couldn't, for all intents or purposes, be a "good" man in the way most people would describe it, but the other man had a gun and had, by the time John reached them, managed to knock Sebastian – who had, up to this point, done rather well, though the other man was taller than him, and John realized that his friend couldn't just be "ex-military", but had definitely had a special training – unconscious with it and was aiming the gun at his head.

John pulled his own gun out of the pocket of his jacket.

"Put it down" he said, slowly, feeling completely calm and wonderfully alive at the same time, aiming at the other man's head.

Sebastian stirred and looked from the man to John, a look in his eyes the doctor couldn't interpret. Was he worried? Scared? In shock?

But he couldn't think about that now.

The other man sneered.

"And why would I do that?"

"I am going to shoot you if you don't".

"He is going to kill me if I don't" the man said, his hand holding the gun starting to shake, and John realized that the other man was terrified – when, really Sebastian should have been the one shaking, but, then again, Sebastian had been in the army.

John took a deep breath. The man looked young, not older than twenty, and he was obviously terrified. And, judging from the clothes he was wearing, he was homeless. True, there was the possibility that he hadn't come here voluntarily, but he was armed whereas Sebastian was not, and while the ex-soldier had put up a good fight, it took a lot to kill a man with bare hands. John had to calm down the young man, get him to drop his gun and then see what he could do for him. Maybe he could help him, who knew. After all, as Sebastian's boss had put it, he was "useful" to him.

"Why don't you put the gun down and we talk about it?" he tried. "Maybe – "

But the young man was shaking his head, panic making his hand shake even more.

"I can't".

And John knew that he was going to shoot, saw as in slow-motion how his finger was tightening on the trigger –

He shot without thinking, and the young man fell down, dead before he hit the ground, a bullet in his heart.

Sebastian stood up and inspected his shirt and trousers. "And there goes another set of clothes" he sighed. "I really wish I didn't have to burn them, but it's quite difficult to get out all the blood, and we wouldn't want to leave behind any evidence."

He looked at John with sparkling eyes, and suddenly the doctor realized what he'd seen in them before. Something he knew very well, and had, to his everlasting shame, experienced at the same time as Sebastian.

Excitement.

"Good shot" Sebastian said cheerfully, standing over the corpse. "I knew you were an army doctor, but I didn't think you could shoot that well – thank you, by the way. Dying would have been rather inconvenient."

"Definitely" a voice rang out, and John shuddered when he recognized Sebastian's employer. He stepped out of the shadows, and the doctor suddenly suspected that he'd been there the whole time.

"It would have had to get myself a new pet, and I don't have time to go looking for one."

To John's surprise, Sebastian didn't even react to be referred to as "pet" and simply looked at his employer in a way that made it obvious why he was working for him in the first place. Though John was sure that his "friend" wouldn't stand a chance; the man was clearly a psychopath.

"Doctor Watson" Seb – their boss said, inspecting the body. "I must admit that I have underestimated you. That's the thing about ordinary people – they keep surprising you. It's rather amusing."

He grinned.

"I think we will not only need your services as a doctor – which have proved rather satisfactory, I assure you – but, in the future, you might be useful to me in other ways as well."

John swallowed and ignored the way Sebastian looked at him – a way that was decidedly jealous.

"Don't get me wrong, Sebby's brilliant with a rifle" – so a sniper then, John decided – "and in hand-to-hand combat, but now and then, you need someone to act and think fast."

He patted Sebastian's shoulder as he said it, and John didn't know whether he should feel relieved that, at least, "Sebby" was too occupied with cherishing the touch to keep looking at John as if he'd like to show him just how good he was with a rifle, or if he should feel more threatened than ever.

"So, now that the flirting's over, let me introduce myself" the man said, advancing towards John and holding out a hand the doctor shook not without reluctance, which he seemed to notice.

"Jim. Jim Moriarty. Consulting criminal".

John didn't want to know what that meant.

But, as he looked from Jim to Sebastian and at the body on the floor, he realized that he'd soon find out, whether he wanted to or not.

There was no going back now.


	3. Chapter 3

_There is no need to act like a petulant five-year-old because I offered to pay a part of your rent.  
M_

Sherlock ignored the text, just like he had ignored the last five texts from his brother. Sitting in his small, crampy flat, right after the landlord had once more threatened to throw him out just because he'd done an experiment involving a human kidney and several acids, knowing that another, bigger flat, in a prime spot nonetheless, was waiting for him, but he couldn't afford it because no one would care to be his flatmate, no matter what Mike Stamford said, was frustrating enough without having to face the possibility that he'd have to go to his brother of all people to be able to afford the rent.

And, naturally, it would give him a certain satisfaction to refuse to move into 221B Baker Street simply because his brother thought he should.

But he couldn't deny that he would prefer Mrs. Hudson's flat to the hole he had to live in at the moment.

It would be easier if he could find a flatmate, but, as he had told Mike Stamford just the day before, "Who'd want me for a flatmate?"

Luckily, Lestrade came in at that moment, having insisted on having a key of any flat Sherlock might inhabit after he'd found him high at the third day of trying to call him on his phone. This insistence, it was true, might have something to do with the fact that the DI had been convinced that Sherlock was of the drugs at this time; but, since he'd been clean for over three years now, he found the detective's need to hold a key to his flat rather immature. Especially since the drugs would never be a problem again, not if he got enough cases, and he was rather confident that his homepage would provide him with work.

If he felt something like gratitude towards Lestrade, or thought, for a fleeting moment, that he rather appreciated to have someone who cared for him, he deleted the feeling.

Sherlock, of course, could tell from the urgency in his step that the DI had finally decided to consult him on the multiple suicide case.

So he simply asked, as soon as Lestrade opened the door, "Where?"

The DI didn't seem surprised at Sherlock's question and answered, simply, "Brixton, Lauriston Gardens."

"What's different about this one? You wouldn't call me if there wasn't something different?"

"You know how they never leave notes? This one did".

Sherlock knew who'd be on forensics, but asked anyway, and sighed when he got the expected reply. Anderson was an imbecile; it was no wonder that there had been several undetected murders before he had decided to help the police (or, as Lestrade would probably say, before he stumbled high on a crime scene, but that was beside the point).

Sherlock, loathe as he had been to admit it to himself, needed an assistant; someone who could check out the boring parts of a case, maybe take a look at the forensic evidence and the body, and –

He sighed when he once again realized that he needed someone who was not boring and yet absolutely human.

Someone who would understand all the ordinary people with their ordinary feelings and therefore ordinary motives and would explain them to him – or, at least, would take care of emotional outbursts and other things witnesses usually suffered from, so that Sherlock wouldn't have to care about it.

But finding such an assistant was impossible. He couldn't imagine someone who was so utterly normal and yet extraordinary enough to want Sherlock to spend time with him. In fact, though he was by no means a betting man, he was ready to bet that such a man didn't exist.

So he went to Lauriston Gardens alone, barely putting up with Anderson's and Donavan's stupidity.

Of course, he found the pink lady's case within an hour after having left the crime scene.

Sadly, sending the killer a text proved a dead end when the passenger of the cab turned out to be Californian, but you couldn't always win.

He returned to his small flat, and sighed when he saw that the door stood open. Once again, he had to remind himself that Lestrade wasn't as stupid as the rest of Scotland Yard. Of course he'd realize that Sherlock would go looking for the case.

Luckily, they hadn't found his secret stash behind the copy of Turner's "Reichenbach Falls", but maybe, if they stayed around long enough, they'd get lucky. Which was why he reluctantly agreed to help and started to explain that –

And then he got the text.

He really should have paid more attention to the cab driver, but he'd let himself be deceived by appearances. A "funny old man" driving a cab certainly didn't look like a serial killer, but he swore to himself never to make this mistake again.

He was aware that most people would think it insane to take a pill if he didn't have to, but he'd never been what was considered "normal".

He'd chosen the right pill, he knew even before Jeff Hope started to convulse and he watched the man dying. It was a pity that he couldn't form a coherent sentence anymore - Sherlock would have liked to know who his so-called fan was – but some things couldn't be helped.

Like Mycroft's appearance at the crime scene.

But Lestrade's drugs bust had at least helped Sherlock to make a decision.

"Another case solved, I see. How very public-spirited of you. But – "

Sherlock interrupted him.

"Very well, I will take the cases you decide you need me to solve, if you pay a part of the rent of 221B. But only interesting cases."

Mycroft smiled his usual condescending smile, and Sherlock barely resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

"You can triumph later, preferably after you've lost some weight – looks almost like you gained another pound. And please, don't start a war before I get home, you know what it does to the traffic".

He returned to his small flat, and spent the night packing.

Mrs. Hudson was delighted when he moved in the next day, although he could tell from the look on her face that she'd rather hoped he would find a flatmate. His new landlady had always been of the opinion that he was too "alone", and "needed a friend", and Sherlock had by now given up to convince her that he didn't need anyone. He'd never wanted or needed a friend, had never even had one, so why should he start looking now? He was perfectly content living alone.

He simply turned the second bedroom into his laboratory after a few weeks – which, at least, made Mrs Hudson's nagging about the state the kitchen was in stop.

Over the next few months, he solved several cases, though only the one about the Black Lotus really stuck out – mainly because they almost got the best of him in a fight at the Circus. The cases Mycroft forced him to take were, as he had predicted, utterly boring at worst and mildly amusing at best, so he didn't get his hopes up when his brother strode into his living room one day. Naturally, he immediately started playing his violin.

"You might not want to torture the poor instrument like that, brother mine" Mycroft drawled, sitting down on his second chair.

Sherlock frowned – noticing with a certain amount of satisfaction that his brother had once again put on weight – and asked, "What do you want? If it is another missing British citizen somewhere – "

"I don't think you can call the daughter of the Minister of Foreign Affairs any British citizen" Mycroft interrupted him. "But, I think you will find this case more to your satisfaction. In fact, I believe you'll find it rather interesting."

"Really?" Sherlock drawled, refusing to show any interest in what his brother had to say.

Mycroft, knowing him better than anyone, smirked.

"Did you ever hear the name "Moriarty"?"

John was tending the wounds of a young man for the third time that night – he spent the intervals in an adjoining room, listening to the captive's cries as Sebastian "interrogated" him, and knowing that he could do nothing but try to make it better before it started all over again, and hating himself for the fact that his hand was completely steady as he cleaned the man's wounds – when the door opened and Jim strode in. Sebastian went to greet him, while John stiffened. He hadn't been afraid of many things in his life, but Jim scared him.

"Ah, Sebastian. How's Mr. Johnson?"

"Still refusing to talk, Jim, I fear".

"Now, Shinwell" Jim said, looking at the man who was bleeding under John's hands, "I don't think that's nice, do you? It would certainly be much more polite to cooperate – especially since we have John here taking so excellent care of you".

John focused on treating the man's wounds. Ever since Jim had introduced himself, he' worked for him one way or another almost every night, doing exactly what he was told to do. Sometimes, he had to look after someone who was being tortured; now and then, he had to stand guard; once he'd even had to make sure everyone got safely into the getaway car – thankfully, he hadn't been forced to shoot at the guardians of the small family bank.

He didn't have a choice. He' had to help Sebastian get rid of the body, and Jim had been waiting for them when they returned.

"So, John, I am sure you will believe me when I tell you that Sebby and I could make everyone believe you murdered the young man because - well, because you felt like it. I know the feeling" John's new boss had exclaimed happily.

John had swallowed, but wondered for a moment if it wouldn't be better -

"Oh, and your sister might suffer. Just saying."

With that, Jim had left the room, a spring in his step, Sebastian at his heels.

John had returned home, through dark alleys and feeling more scared than he'd ever been in his entire life, but at the same time, strangely excited. How he hated himself for being an adrenaline junkie.

His first "assignment" had taken place the next night, and every night after that. He still got paid, even more money than before, but he had enough pride not to search for a bigger flat. The assignments had slowly got - well, it was difficult to say "worse", but certainly longer and, in Jim's eyes, probably more important. The bank robbery had taken place the week before.

John hadn't seen the bank robbers again, which was explained when Sebastian told him cheerfully that "Jim only arranged these things" (apparently the bank was in financial trouble of some sort and the family had decided to save what they could) and that "nobody ever came to him", but that he still liked "someone who can't be traced back to him" - meaning John - to keep an eye on things". So that was what "consulting criminal" meant.

Jim seemed to like his company, based on how many times he "checked up" on John, and it sent a shiver down his spine every single time.

Sebastian, luckily, had apparently realized that he didn't care for Jim's company, and his jealous looks had disappeared.

Jim addressed John and Sebastian, already having forgotten about Mr. Johnson.

"Sebby, Johnny, my dears, I have made a decision."

"Really?"

Sebastian, as usual, was the one to ask him about it, which was fine by John. He didn't want to talk to Jim more than he absolutely had to.

"Yes. It's time to play a game."

John already knew what Jim meant when he talked about "playing a game", so he focused once more on Mr. Johnson's wounds.

"Pay attention, John." John reluctantly looked up.

"See, that's better." Jim took a deep breath and grinned manically. "As I was just saying – time for a game. I can't wait to see how Sherlock Holmes will react."

John was sure that he'd never heard the name Sherlock Holmes before – having long ago forgotten the name of the man who solved the multiple suicides case – but he was sorry for him, whoever he might happen to be.


	4. Chapter 4

""Moriarty""? No. Mycroft, did you lose one of your associates again? I'm not going to run around looking for someone because you can't be bothered with the "legwork"".

Mycroft sighed. "You will find that this goes deeper than me losing one of my "associates" – although I assure you that, if this were the case, you would already know about it, since chances are it would be of national importance."

"Whatever" Sherlock snarled, "I am not interested".

"You will be" Mycroft replied, twirling his umbrella in his right hand, simply because he knew it annoyed his brother.

Sherlock went over to his violin, which he'd apparently once again thrown haphazardly on his desk – Mycroft wondered how the instrument could have survived that long, really – and started making his beloved screeching noises. His brother, however, had got used to them a long time ago.

He raised an eyebrow, knowing that Sherlock wouldn't ask, no matter how curious he was (and, considering that he hadn't told Mycroft to leave, he must be curious), and decided to be a bit more precise. Just a bit.

"And if I told you that he's responsible for half that is evil and for nearly all that is undetected in this great city?"

"Don't be melodramatic, Mycroft, it doesn't suit you."

But Sherlock had put his violin aside, and the British Government knew he had his attention.

"As you can imagine" he added, "We know about people like him. And we are convinced that he wants to steal the Bruce-Partington-plans".

"They are top-secret, I imagine" Sherlock replied, obviously bored.

"Yes, and rather important for the future of our nation."

"So you want me to guard your top secret plans?"

Mycroft couldn't help it; he snorted. Needless to say, he regretted it immediately when he saw the triumph in Sherlock's eyes and assumed his usual dignified expression.

"No, but it would be better for all concerned if he were – captured".

He didn't have to explain that Moriarty wouldn't end up in a normal prison, or not before the Secret Service had interrogated him, at least.

Sherlock, who had until this point stood in front of the window, let himself fall on the sofa. "And I thought you said you had something interesting" he sighed in a melodramatic fashion. "I am not a dog you can make fetch a stick every time you ask. You want me to investigate this Moriarty, as a pre-emptive strike, so you won't have any problems..."

"Did I forget to mention" Mycroft interrupted him, deciding that enough was enough, "that I am convinced he was the "sponsor" behind Jeff Hope's murder spree?"

Sherlock sat up, intrigued, and Mycroft knew he had him.

John returned home – or was brought home, to be precise – at dawn and wanted nothing more than to collapse on his bed, but the disgust he felt at himself would surely make sleep impossible.

Shinwell Johnson hadn't talked, that much was clear. And, since Sebastian had informed him after he'd cleaned him up for the ninth time, that "his services were no longer required" it was equally clear what had happened to the man. And that John had done nothing to prevent it from happening.

Because they would hurt him or Harry if he told anyone, because he only felt the blood running through his veins when he was doing something illegal or dangerous, because –

He sighed and sat down on his bed. He really would like a bigger flat, but he'd decided not to touch the money Jim had transferred into his account. He could refuse to use it, at least, even if he certainly wouldn't try to tell the consulting criminal that he didn't want his money.

He took his gun out of his jacket; it felt heavy in his hand. It would be a way out, he knew, but Jim and Sebastian would most likely kill Harry anyway, just to prove a point.

There was no way he could help himself. But maybe he could help someone else.

He stood up, his limp long gone, and walked over to his desk.

He took out his laptop and started an Internet search.

He had to find out more about this Sherlock Holmes who seemed to interest Jim so much.

After reading his website, he realized why.

In a way, Sherlock Holmes seemed to be Jim's mirror image; intelligent, crazy, incredibly narcissistic.

But, he realized, as soon as he started reading the comments on the "consulting detective's" – God, even their job titles were polar opposites of each other –homepage and various articles, about the multiple suicide case, for example (so it had been Sherlock Holmes who'd solved that one), Sherlock Holmes was definitely on the side of the angels.

Fighting to make the city a better place.

Which was more than John could say about himself.

Yet –

Maybe he could at least save Sherlock Holmes from the fate Jim was preparing for him, because whatever this "game" was, whatever Jim had planned, he doubted it would be pleasant. To be honest, he even doubted whether Sherlock Holmes would come out of it alive.

He had to warn him, even if it was the last decent thing he ever did in his entire life, which was, admittedly, not unlikely.

But how should he contact the "consulting detective"? He was sure that Jim had him under surveillance, or at least, that he made sure to know where John usually spent his days – which, at the moment, was his small flat. And he certainly checked his phone records and emails – he transferred money to John on a regular basis, without having asked the doctor for his account number, or even the name of his bank, so he certainly knew how to get the information he wanted.

But what if he – what if he got a job (Jim would probably even appreciate this, since he, as a "consulting criminal", would be aware that you had to be untraceable, and what better than a day job to make one look normal?) and built up a routine and, in a few weeks or so, tried to talk to Sherlock Holmes?

He knew enough about Jim, having observed him during his assignments, to know that the consulting criminal always needed to be prepared. If he had only just announced to John and Sebastian that he wanted to "play" with Sherlock Holmes, without telling them what to do, he must still be at planning stage. That gave him time, at least.

He didn't have to think long about where he wanted to work; he had enjoyed his studies at St. Bart's, and apparently they were short of staff. Just locum work, but still.

Maybe, he mused after his job interview, he would have found Sarah Sawyer attractive if he hadn't too many other things to worry about.

Jim, when he strode into the room John was treating Sebastian in – for once, Jim's "pet" had been injured, although John couldn't see anything like concern in the consulting criminal's face – knew about his interview already. Of course.

"I think that's a wonderful idea, Johnny – so utterly normal, taking a job in a surgery. You definitely have a devious, if a bit ordinary, mind".

He grinned, and John had to fight the temptation to punch him in the face. Jim seemed to notice. His grin became even wider.

But, at least, he was allowed to take the job at the surgery, which meant he could maybe, just maybe, sneak out one day.

After he'd built up a routine.

He made sure to let Jim know his schedule – now and then, he had to work at night, and he didn't want him to think that he was running away. Jim could be quite impulsive, and by the time John finished work, he could already have hurt Harry.

John enjoyed the work at the surgery, mainly because of its predictability, but he couldn't deny that the work he did for Jim was more exciting, and, in the end, though he tried to tell himself it wasn't true, more fulfilling. Something was wrong with him; why couldn't he be as ordinary as everyone seemed to think he was?

One day, right after his shift, he bumped into Mike Stamford, an old friend of his, who invited him to coffee and seemed happy to see him again. John had no doubt that he wouldn't think like this if he knew why he was working at St Bart's to begin with.

After their talk – mostly Mike telling him all about the courses he was holding and his girlfriend – John returned home and decided, after a look in his calendar, that one month of routine was enough.

He went to his next night shift – night, so Jim and Sebastian would hopefully be too preoccupied to notice he'd gone somewhere else – but made sure to snivel and wear make-up (he even rimmed his eyes red) to convince Sarah to sent him home.

It worked – he only had to keep her from touching him, and that was easy enough, since he didn't protest he was healthy when she told him he "looked awful", but asked, quietly and (seemingly) miserable, if he might go home. She agreed and he left the hospital, taking the tube to Baker Street – he figured he'd be less detectable in a crowd.

He hoped Sherlock Holmes would be at home, and by the light in his windows (at least, he thought it were his windows), although it was almost one thirty am on a week, it would seem he was.

He rang the bell, and, soon enough, the tall, dark-haired man he'd seen on several pictures in the internet opened the door.

He looked at John.

"Whatever it is an ex-army doctor who works at a surgery, and apparently called in sick today although he's obviously healthy, wants from me, it'll have to wait. I have more important things to think about".

And he would have slammed the door in his face, had John not put his foot in the door.

He looked at Sherlock Holmes, who was frowning at him, and, ignoring a strange feeling of coming home, he said, slowly, "John Watson. Trust me, what I am about to tell you is important for your well-being."

That seemed to get his attention, at least, and he let John in. The doctor took a deep breath and stepped over the front step of 221B, somehow sensing that what he was about to do would change his life.


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock hadn't got any closer to find Jim Moriarty over the last few weeks, which of course frustrated him. He'd have expected some results by now, but his best man on the streets, the one who'd always known where best to look for someone who didn't want to be found, Shinwell Johnson, had disappeared without a trace. Sherlock convinced himself that the worry he was feeling was only related to the fact that, without Shinwell, he'd have to rely on less trustworthy members of his homeless network.

However, even this disappearance shouldn't have prevented any information from reaching him; it might take a bit longer, naturally, but not that long.

Jim Moriarty's name was nothing more than a whisper, he'd been able to find out that much. Jim Moriarty was a man who scared everyone who came in contact with him enough to make sure that he remained in the shadows, hidden from inquiring eyes and ears.

Mycroft didn't find out anything either. Since he'd already asked Sherlock to investigate, the consulting detective wasn't surprised.

Mrs. Hudson had noticed his growing frustration – shooting holes in her wall and playing the violin at all hours of the night might have something to do with that – and tried, in her own way, to help him.

She insisted that he ate – she brought tea and biscuits at all hours, and now and then, what she called "a proper meal", even though Sherlock insisted he wasn't hungry, and sometimes she stayed around to make sure he ate – and slept – once she even stood guard at his bedroom door for several hours and stormed in when she heard the window open – and wasn't nearly as angry about the bullet holes in his wall as he'd predicted.

She tried to talk to him about it, just once.

"Sherlock, dear, are you stuck on a case? You seem a little nervous..."

He had just destroyed the surface of the kitchen table with an experiment, and she must have heard the explosion; he was going to shout at her, but decided not to when he reflected that calling someone "nervous" after he'd just destroyed one's property was definitely a sign of caring.

"I have a few problems with my informants, but nothing that should worry you, Mrs. Hudson." Then, almost as an afterthought, he added, "Sorry for the table".

Mrs. Hudson didn't ask him again, but she fussed even more over him from that day on.

Lestrade seemed to notice that something was wrong as well, which Sherlock decided was inevitable; the Di wasn't exactly the smartest person around, but he was definitely the best detective Scotland Yard had. And he'd notice that Sherlock had slept even less than usual and got a little bit thinner during his futile attempts to collect information about Moriarty.

"Sherlock" he inquired on a crime scene, when the consulting detective was busy looking over the body and ignoring Anderson, "You only insulted Donavan twice today – are you alright?"

Distracted as he was by the new case, he mumbled, "I'm just stuck on a case I'm working on for Mycroft. Not your business".

Lestrade stared at him for a moment, apparently struck speechless, before clearing his throat. "Well, if you need... if you want my help, you can always call" he finally answered. Sherlock turned around, confused. Why should Lestrade care? And why would he think that Sherlock needed help.

"Why would I need you?" he asked, but Lestrade was already moving away to talk to Donavan, and Sherlock concentrated on the body once more.

Mycroft decided to visit the next day, and it wasn't difficult to figure out why.

"Do you and DI Lestrade often talk about me? Do you kidnap him on a regular basis, or does it happen spontaneously?"

His brother sat down on the chair that was usually unoccupied and raised an eyebrow. "As a matter of fact, he called me. There are still some people who aren't averse to phone calls. He is concerned about you. Apparently you told him yesterday that you were "stuck on a case" for the first time since you met".

Sherlock took his violin in his hands and started plucking on the strings with his hand. "So what? He was obviously waiting for an answer, so I said the first thing that came to mind. I was busy looking over the evidence at his crime scene."

"The case? I thought it what had happened was obvious".

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"It was."

"Which should make it even easier for you to focus your attention on finding Jim Moriarty".

Sherlock's shoulders tensed, and Mycroft saw why the DI had called him. Sherlock was thinner and paler than a few weeks ago, he was obviously frustrated with himself. And usually, when he got frustrated with himself...

Mycroft preferred not to think about the last time Sherlock had been stuck on a case. He never liked to remember "danger nights".

Sherlock seemed to know what he was thinking about and sighed.

"I am clean, Mycroft."

"Is your flat?" the British Government shot back, and Sherlock was silent, confirming his suspicion. Then, he added, in a neutral voice, "Sherlock, you know you can have all the –"

"You haven't been successful at tracking him down either, so I don't think you can help. Goodbye, Mycroft".

His big brother left, knowing it would be of no use to keep trying to talk to Sherlock now.

Sherlock spent the rest of the day playing his violin and thinking about what to do next, coming up with frustratingly few plans. He already knew he wouldn't sleep, so he didn't even bother to change out of his suit.

And then John Watson rang the door bell.

He deduced him as soon as he opened the door, and expected him to leave, but instead, his visitor stood firm and he had to let him in. Better hear what he had to say (though he doubted it would be "important for his well-being"), send him on his way and continue on figuring out a plan to find Moriarty.

John was relieved that the consulting detective apparently had decided to show him into his flat before demanding an explanation – Jim had his eyes everywhere, he was sure of it, and he didn't want to stand longer in the street than he had to.

Sherlock Holmes slowly led John up the stairs and opened the door. The doctor entered a flat that looked like a bomb had struck; papers and books and clothes and a violin and a Union Jack pillow and – something that looked like a chemistry set lay around in wild disarray, and, as Sherlock indicated a chair and John caught a brief glimpse of the kitchen while walking towards he, he realized that the kitchen table looked like it had barely survived an explosion.

It was a weird flat, somehow fitting for this weird man, but John couldn't deny that he felt, for whatever reason, comfortable here. There was something... homely about it, even with the chaos.

Sherlock sat down on the opposite chair and put his hands up to his face in a prayer position, scrutinizing him. The consulting detective didn't know why, but now, seeing him sitting there almost like he belonged – he felt interested in this John Watson. He frowned and decided to finally ask what he wanted.

"So, what is it you have to tell me?"

John swallowed. He'd thought a lot about what he was going to say, but he had never found the right way to start.

"Did you by any chance ever hear about a criminal mastermind that's obsessed with you?" didn't really sound right. Maybe he should just tell him the truth. After all, if Jim Moriarty knew about Sherlock Holmes, chances were Sherlock Holmes knew about Jim Moriarty. He took a deep breath.

"I'm working for Jim Moriarty".

The consulting detective's eyes widened and John knew he had been right.

Sherlock tensed and prepared himself to be attacked, even though John Watson didn't look like a hit man. Then, again, he was ex-military.

"So, what do you want? Did your employer send you?"

"No".

John could see that Sherlock Holmes didn't know whether to believe him or not and, frankly, in this situation, he didn't blame him.

"I come..." he cleared his throat. "I've come to warn you. Jim wants to play a game with you, and he certainly doesn't mean Cluedo."

"And you have come to tell me this because – "

"Because Jim isn't – he's a criminal, and he does bad things to good people."

Sherlock chuckled darkly. "You obviously don't know me well."

"Well enough to know that you solve crimes instead of committing them, and that's a reason to warn you."

Sherlock stood up and walked over to the window, trying to understand why he believed what this man he hadn't known half an hour ago was saying. There was no reason to; in fact, this could all be a bad joke or even a trick of Moriarty's; but, somehow, he believed John Watson.

He didn't have to tell him that, though.

He turned around. "You will understand that I have to collect some information before deciding whether to trust you. Where can I reach you?"

John sighed, having expected something of that sort.

"Considering that Jim certainly keeps me under surveillance..."

Sherlock left the room and was back so quickly John couldn't even ask himself where he was gone, giving him a burn phone.

"This phone doesn't even exist officially. I will text you."

John nodded.

Then Sherlock added, "Now, you obviously called in sick so you could talk to me, and I expect you want to get home undetected so you can tell your employer that you actually were sick. It would be best if you..."

Apparently the consulting detective knew the city better than anyone else, and he explained to John how to get to his flat (he somehow managed to know where it was, without asking) without being observed. Then the doctor climbed out the window.

"Goodbye Mr. Holmes" he said, just as he was trying to manoeuvre his wounded shoulder out of the flat.

"Sherlock, please, John" the consulting detective replied, and then he was standing on the back street of the house.

He arrived home without incident and sat down on the bed, feeling, without really knowing why, that Sherlock believed him – and that he'd just found an ally.


	6. Chapter 6

As soon as John had left, Sherlock took his phone to send Mycroft a text. John Watson was an ex-soldier, and his brother would be able to get Sherlock his service record in a few minutes. He didn't really like having to rely on his brother, but considering this unexpected development, he needed any information he could get as fast as possible.

_I need all information you can find about John Watson, ex-army doctor.  
S_

Mycroft didn't sleep, of course; he was always working, even at three am.

It didn't take long for him to text back.

_I assume it would be useless to ask why.  
M_

With a smile, Sherlock sent his response.

_He's working for Moriarty and tried to warn me because his employer wants to "play a game" with me.  
S_

Mycroft replied in less than a minute.

_I will be there in thirty minutes.  
M_

Resigning himself to the fact that naturally Mycroft couldn't just send him the information, but had to share it with him – something the British Government hadn't foreseen, how very shocking for his dear brother – Sherlock spent the next half hour thinking about John's confession and warning.

There was the possibility that this was all a plan devised by Jim Moriarty. Trying to make Sherlock trust his employee, playing with his head. But, if that was his intention, he certainly hadn't cared to collect information about the consulting detective. He trusted no one, he didn't have a heart.

And...

Sherlock sighed. He might as well admit it to himself.

He believed John Watson.

He had no reason to, in fact, he was sure that he shouldn't, but he did.

There was something about the doctor that made Sherlock believe what he said, even though he'd admitted that a psychopath wanted to "play a game" with the consulting detective – and that John himself should apparently help Jim Moriarty.

It was utterly frustrating and impossible to explain.

He was still trying to understand it when he heard Mycroft's step on the stairs, and soon enough, his brother opened the door, of course with his umbrella in his left hand. He carried a folder in his right.

"Sherlock".

"Mycroft. What have you got?"

"Good evening to you too, brother mine."

Mycroft strode across the room and sat down in the chair John had occupied an hour ago, and Sherlock frowned when he realized that, while Mycroft sitting there annoyed him, he'd been perfectly alright with John occupying it.

Thankfully, his big brother had apparently decided to give him the information he wanted and held out the file. Sherlock grabbed it, sat down in his chair and started going through it, while Mycroft summed it up.

"Captain John Watson, _Fifth_ Northumberland Fusiliers. According to all reports, a good soldier and even better doctor. Invalided home from Afghanistan towards the end of last year after he was shot in the left shoulder. Visited therapy for a while, after having problems adjusting to civilian life and developing a psychosomatic limp, however, he stopped coming to his appointment several months ago. Parents deceased, one sister, who has checked herself into rehabilitation facilities several times for alcoholism, apparently without much success.  
Currently working at St Bart's, where he studied. However, he'd only doing locum work, as far as I can tell. There's a rather big sum on his account I can't explain – he doesn't get paid very well, and his army pension is too small. So, it does seem probable that he has another source of income – which might just be working for Jim Moriarty."

Sherlock nodded, laying the file on the table. He had expected as much. If Jim Moriarty was as intelligent as he appeared to be – and it certainly seemed so – he wouldn't just have anyone working for him. And a soldier who was also a doctor was certainly useful.

"I think" Mycroft said, when he realized that Sherlock wasn't going to talk anytime soon, "the real question is, what would he be doing here?"

"He said he came to warn me" Sherlock answered. "That Moriarty wants to play a game with me and – "

"Yes, Sherlock, I know" Mycroft interrupted him. "But why should he? It is far more likely that this is a – "

He stopped talking, looking at Sherlock with an incredulous expression on his face, and Sherlock cursed the fact that his brother could read his thoughts.

"You are not – Sherlock, don't tell me that you believe Doctor Watson" Mycroft said, slowly.

Sherlock stood up and walked over to the window, so that Mycroft wouldn't see his face.

"It is possible that he came to warn me, like he said he did."

"Possible? Yes. Probable? No. Sherlock, do you really think that Moriarty hires people who betray him at the first chance they get? Plus, according to the footage from St Bart's, he's not limping anymore. Add that to the fact that he most likely stopped going to his therapy sessions as soon as he started working for Moriarty – he didn't limp because of post-traumatic stress, brother mine. He's an adrenaline junkie, and he started working for a criminal – not one criminal, _the_ criminal – as soon as he returned from Afghanistan..."

Sherlock bit his lip. Much as he hated to admit it, Mycroft had a point. There were many reasons not to believe John Watson.

Mycroft stood up and Sherlock heard him walk towards him. "You don't trust people easily. Have you decided to trust John Watson, of all people?"

The only answer he had was neither the one he wanted to give, nor the one Mycroft wanted to get.

"I don't know. All the facts point one way, and all my instincts another".

His brother sighed. "Just be careful, Sherlock. Be very careful".

With that, his brother left. Sherlock only turned around when he heard the door close. He strode over to the table and picked up the file. He had to make up his mind whether or not to trust his instincts.

By the time the sun rose, he still didn't know. Finally, he gave in. There was only one way to decide. He had to contact John Watson.

John hadn't slept. There was no use in trying. He was on edge. Sherlock had seemed to believe him, but, if he had learned anything from working for Jim, it was that you could never really tell what people like him and Sherlock were thinking.

Although –

He couldn't deny that, now that he'd talked to him, he didn't see Sherlock in the same light as Jim anymore. The man had emotions, though he tried to hide them; he'd been tense when John had told him who he worked for, so slightly nervous at the thought of a fight.

And John couldn't deny that he felt safe in his presence, and in his flat, without knowing why.

He was still sitting on his bed, thinking about Sherlock and Jim and Seb and Harry, without realizing that the sun had risen, when the phone Sherlock had given him rang with a text alert.

He pulled it out and frowned when he saw the text. Whatever he had been expecting, it hadn't been that.

_When are you going back to work at St Bart's?_

_Sarah will probably believe that I'm better in two days. Why?_

_I do the tests on the evidence in the lab there, so we could accidentally meet each other._

John resigned himself to wait.

The next night, he was stitching the stab wound of a robber – apparently even little old ladies carried some kind of weapon around with them, nowadays – when Jim approached him. John never heard him – the consulting criminal was a master in sneaking up on people – but he always felt his presence.

"Johnny, my dear, I hear you had to leave work yesterday because you were feeling ill. How are you?"

John swallowed and turned around, praying that he looked calm.

"I'm fine, really – just needed an aspirin. I went straight home and to bed. Nothing to worry about".

"Good" Jim answered cheerfully, "I would hate to have to be worried. And so would Sebby, for that matter".

Then, with a wave, he was gone, and John took a deep breath. If Jim suspected what he'd been doing...

But he couldn't help it, now, what was done was done. He'd have to deal with the consequences. If Jim wasn't simply playing with his head.

Sarah was very nice to him when he returned to St Bart's for his shift, two days later, this time in the morning, and once again, he wondered if he would be interested, were it not for the impending doom that was hanging over his head.

He got a text around ten am.

_Take your lunch break at 1 pm precisely and come to the lab._

He did as he was told; he still remembered where the lab was, from his days when he'd studied here with Mike, and certainly would never have thought that he'd work for a consulting criminal one day.

He was surprised to find, when he entered the lab, Mike talking to Sherlock, who was looking through a microscope.

"And then Sue..." Mike trailed off when he saw John. "John! Hello! How are you? Sherlock, this is John Watson, old mate of mine. John, this is Sherlock Holmes – he works as a consultant for the police."

"Consulting detective" Sherlock mumbled, looking up and nodding at John. John, realizing that he wanted them to act as if they'd never seen each other before, nodded too.

Mike looked at his watch. "Oh, I have to dash. I have to teach in... five minutes, and I need a coffee. Bye!"

With that, he left the lab, and John said the first thing that came into his mind.

"I didn't know you knew Mike."

"I could say the same thing" Sherlock replied, leaning back in his chair. "But I assume you studied together?"

"We did."

Sherlock nodded. "Good, then." He stared at John, with a look that seemed to go right through him, and added, "I know enough about your life in military service. Tell me about your connection to Jim Moriarty".

John would have been nervous, if he hadn't realized that Sherlock's shoulders, as opposed to last night, were relaxed. He trusted him.

So he took a deep breath and started explaining.  
 _  
_


	7. Chapter 7

John told Sherlock everything, realizing while he was talking that the story didn't really show him to be the best of men; after all, it seemed like he was a desperate adrenaline junkie, looking for any kind of action – and, he had to admit, that was exactly what he was. He couldn't change it, and while he didn't think Sherlock would be disgusted or shocked – the man hunted down killers for a living, after all – he somehow didn't like the thought that the consulting detective could think less of him after being told everything that had happened.

Sherlock didn't show any reaction to his story, just kept piercing John with his gaze.

Just once, when John was describing the torture of the man the night Jim had told him and Sebastian about the game, did he look away.

His gaze returned to John a moment later; in fact, his reaction was so quick that John probably shouldn't have noticed it, but for some reason, he did.

So he stopped talking and waited.

Sherlock realized as soon as John told him about the man – mid-forties, almost bald, but athletic – who it had been. But he didn't want to ask for confirmation; he was sure, after all, and being sentimental wouldn't help them in their endeavour to capture (though, he had to admit, after all John had told him, it seemed unlikely that he would let himself be taken alive) Moriarty.

But John surprised Sherlock once again and stopped talking. The doctor must have noticed something in his expression – until now, only Mycroft had been able to read him so well, and Sherlock was confused that it didn't bother him.

Knowing that it would be useless to ask John to continue – the doctor had risked his life to come to him, so he would definitely want to know what was going on inside his head while he was telling his story – he took a deep breath and asked, careful not to let anything seep into his voice, "Do you happen to know the name of the man Moran was torturing?"

John frowned, trying to remember. "It was a rather weird name – his first name, at least. I believe his surname was something like – Johnson? Was that it? Yes, I think so".

"Shinwell?" Sherlock inquired.

John's eyes widened. "Yes! That was his first name! How did you know..." he trailed off, studying Sherlock's face. "Did you know him?"

"He was my best informant on the streets" Sherlock replied, shrugging his shoulders. "He'd been working for me for a few years. He knew almost everything that was going on in this great city".

John bit his lip and looked at the floor. "I'm sorry".

"What for? Sherlock asked.

John looked up, confused. "For your friend. I should have – "

"Moriarty would have killed you" Sherlock interrupted him. "And he wasn't my friend. I don't have friends. He was my employee, if you will."

He would miss Shinwell, that much was true, but simply because now he'd have to find another informant – and he doubted anyone would be as good.

He looked at John, who was frowning, obviously trying to find something like regret or sorrow in his face, which Sherlock knew he wouldn't. There was no reason to allow sentiment to get in the way, not even if he had felt anything concerning Shinwell's death.

John clenched his left hand, and Sherlock remembered something about an intermittent tremor in the file of his therapist. Something must be troubling him.

John swallowed. He had thought that Sherlock wasn't like Jim, and in a way, and, he had to be honest with himself, he still didn't think so, but this... this non-reaction to the murder of someone he'd known for several years...

But wait. He had reacted. He had looked away when John had described the torture, and he'd asked the doctor after the name of the man immediately, so it must have been troubling him, if just a little. He wasn't as indifferent as he appeared, or tried to appear, to be.

He unclenched his left hand, not remembering clenching it in the first place, and took a deep breath.

"Still, I'm sorry. You'd known him, after all, for several years. It can't be easy to hear about his death like that".

"No, I suppose not" Sherlock replied, obviously taken aback, and, just for a moment, John saw what he'd been looking for. Sherlock cared. He just didn't want to. So he tried to convince everyone, probably including himself, that he didn't.

John smiled and continued with his story, and Sherlock was confused. Why had his posture suddenly relaxed? Why had he smiled? Shinwell was dead, and the doctor seemed to care more about it than Sherlock did (naturally, since Sherlock didn't care for anyone), and then, all of a sudden, he smiled, and continued talking?

Ordinary people could sometimes be unpredictable, he remembered. Though he was beginning to suspect that John Watson was anything but ordinary.

And he couldn't deny that his presence had a certain reassuring quality to it; at least he felt comfortable when around him, something that didn't usually happen. Really, the only people he allowed to get close to him were Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade and Mycroft (because he had to, in the case of his brother). And now and then Mike Stamford (because the teacher was anything but threatening, and seemed to think of Sherlock as a friend, and there was no harm done when Sherlock forced himself to appear interested in the mundane stories of Mike's life from time to time) and Molly (she was the one with access to the morgue and body parts, after all).

But with John...

Sherlock trusted him, there was denying that, not anymore. And not knowing the reason for this trust made him nervous.

So he forced himself to listen to the rest of John's story, and he had to admit that the doctor had at least done a good job at covering his tracks, although Moriarty's words about his "worry" were a little bit disconcerting.

He said "So you made it to my flat without anyone noticing. There might be a problem, however."

John looked at him. "A problem?"

"Moriarty will know, probably he already does, that I spend quite a lot of time here, experimenting and working on cases. He is, after all, the one wanting to "play a game", and he'll definitely collect all the information he needs. That's why he kidnapped Shinwell, I imagine".

John nodded. "So..."

"So, before long, he is going to ask you whether you saw me in the building, and if you could get yourself introduced to me".

John swallowed. "You mean, he is going to try..."

"To have you spy on me. Yes."

Then, John thought of something. "I could tell him that I could get Mike to introduce us. Because he told me about you and I was curious about the "consulting detective"".

"That could work."

Suddenly, John chuckled.

"That could actually have happened. Just imagine if I'd simply run into Mike one day..."

Against his will, Sherlock's lips twitched. Normally, he wasn't one for pondering alternate scenarios – what happened, happened – but having met John in a different way, he didn't think it unlikely that they would have been useful to one another. "We could have solved crimes together". Or, Sherlock could have solved them, and John could have been his assistant. "Although Mycroft probably wouldn't have liked it."

"Mycroft?"

"My older brother. Annoying."

"Is there any other kind of sibling?"

They smiled at each other and then Sherlock cleared his throat, realizing that, somehow, they'd started to talk like – like friends, and he didn't have friends, and it was useless anyway, since John had met Moran instead of him and was now working for Moriarty. He was only there because he felt guilty, Sherlock reminded himself. Nobody liked him, and John certainly didn't either.

"Good. Here is the plan. You are to keep your eyes and ears open when around Moriarty, and to warn me of any developments. We communicate through the phone, and we'll meet during your breaks, here. Is that clear?"

"Yes" John answered, taken aback. A few moments ago, Sherlock had seemed... open, somehow. He'd even smiled. Now, he was the calculating consulting detective again, showing nothing of the heart that John was sure had to be in there somewhere. He actually thought they could have become friends, or whatever Sherlock had instead of friends, if they'd only met differently.

They were accomplices, at least, and he agreed to Sherlock's plan, before hurrying to get a sandwich from the cafeteria, before his lunch break was over.

Sherlock was looking at the door, letting everything that happened go through his head once more, when he got a text.

_I still don't think that is a good idea.  
M_

He sighed – of course Mycroft would now keep an even better eye on him – and typed his response.

_I'll ask for your opinion, should I happen to want it.  
S_

_That doesn't mean you don't need it.  
M_

They left it at that, and Sherlock started going through the evidence of a case Lestrade had consulted him on a few days ago.

John, after an unexciting day at work, came home only to find a car already waiting for him. He sighed. He should have known that today of all days he'd be forced to clean the wounds of another poor tortured man. But, as it turned out, he wasn't.

Jim was waiting for him when he got out of the car, and waved cheerfully. "Johnny, I have a very special assignment for you."

"Yes?" John asked, fearing the worst and feeling Sebastian's jealous glare in his back.

"You work at St Bart's, correct?"

"Yes" John repeated, a shiver running down his spine. Jim grinned, although he already knew where John worked, had known from the beginning.

"Wonderful! Sherlock Holmes spends a lot of time there, and you, Johnny dear, are to get yourself introduced to him and be my little favourite spy."

Sebastian must have worn a dangerous expression, because Jim sent a very obviously fake affectionate glance his way. "You will always be my favourite little sniper, Sebby."

"So" he added, "do you think you can do that? Spy on Sherlock Holmes for me?"

John had the feeling that "No" wasn't an acceptable answer, so he said "Of course".

Jim clapped his hands. "Excellent! Now, come with me. One of my associates had the misfortune to find himself on the wrong side of a Browning..."

John followed, realizing at the same time that Sherlock had been right and that his life had once again become more dangerous.


	8. Chapter 8

Over the next few weeks, John's life became increasingly complicated. He had to work at the clinic (and meet Sherlock during his breaks, which, more often than not, resulted in John not having the time to eat anything; thankfully Mike would now and then bring him a sandwich, apparently proud about having introduced him and Sherlock, since he'd never known "Sherlock to talk that long to anyone); he had to tell Sherlock all he could find out about Jim's plan (which, at the moment, wasn't much; the consulting criminal still hadn't given Sebastian and John any instructions); he had to stitch up Jim's associates or victims at night; and he had to lie to Jim.

Always fearing that the consulting criminal would find out any moment what he was doing.

He'd told Jim that he'd managed to get introduced to Sherlock, because, as it turned out, an old friend he'd studied with was one of the few people the consulting detective tolerated.

"Mike Stamford?" Jim had asked, and John apparently hadn't been quick enough at hiding his surprise (at least he hoped that was all that Jim had seen) because his employer had chuckled. "Don't worry, Johnny, I'm not stalking you. But I have to know everything about my pets, right? So I know where and when you studied. And I know who works at St Bart's. So you see, it was rather easy to figure out who you were talking about".

John had nodded, not entirely convinced. Jim might just be toying with him; but, if he knew what John and Sherlock were up to, why didn't he put a stop to it? A bullet could do that – and Sebastian, who seemed to grow more and more jealous, would probably volunteer to rid the world of John Watson. And of his sister.

But there was nothing he could do about it, telling Jim all Sherlock deemed "irrelevant" – about his cases, the times he worked at the lab, where he lived, that Sherlock and his brother weren't close. In truth, John didn't feel comfortable sharing any of this information with Jim, but he didn't have a choice.

His life, without a doubt, was infinitely more dangerous and complicated than it had been in Afghanistan. But he slept and ate, he felt useful, he wasn't sinking into depression, and his psychosomatic limp was gone for good.

And, somehow, unbelievably, he had found a friend in Sherlock Holmes.

Well, not exactly a "friend". Sherlock, as he had pointed out, didn't have friends. But John liked the consulting detective – which was a surprise in itself, because he'd been rather convinced, before meeting him, that all he'd see was a good version of Jim. But Sherlock had a heart, he just hid the fact rather well.

In fact, he was a little saddened at the thought that, as soon as they'd captured Jim – apparently Sherlock's brother worked for the government, or the Secret Service, but they needed Jim alive – they would go their separate ways.

In another life, John didn't doubt it, they could have been friends. No matter what Sherlock said.

Because they couldn't be, he took what he could get and resigned himself to bring down a criminal empire with the help of an extraordinary man.

An extraordinary man who, for some reason, soon starting texting him at all hours.

John made it his habit to check the burn phone Sherlock had given him quite frequently; he made sure to keep it in silent mode at all times – fearing that Jim might decide to search his flat, he always had it on him, and he didn't want anyone to hear his text alert at the wrong time – but he didn't want to miss a text.

Even if they were sometimes not really important or even understandable.

Mostly it was Sherlock complaining about his brother, or because an experiment hadn't worked – though he was always careful not to include names, dates or locations. John was too; one could never know what the future might bring, and he didn't want anyone who might happen to stumble over the phone knowing who texted him.

Then, one day, there came a text, just as John was going through some paper work at the clinic, that surprised him.

_Incubation time of croup._

He swallowed; why would Sherlock want to know the incubation time of a children's disease that had become more and more rare in the course of the last hundred years? Had he experimented with the bacteria and got infected?

_2 to 6 days. Why?_

He only hoped Sherlock would answer – sometimes when the detective got lost in his head, he ignored John even when the doctor was standing right in front of him.

This time, however, he answered.

_Adult victim was infected with it on purpose._

He sighed and shook his head, realizing that he'd give anything to be standing over that body with Sherlock at the moment. He really was crazy.

"Who are you texting?"

Sherlock put his phone away and glared at Lestrade. They were standing by a hospital bed in a hospital at the other end of London. The man who'd died of croup just an hour ago was still lying on the bed, face ashen. At least now Lestrade believed him; when he'd declared the sudden death of a woman in a shopping mall last week to be the result of an infection with a deadly disease that had been used to kill her, the DI had told him that this was "to fanciful". However, someone dying from a particularly aggressive type of croup, someone who hadn't been near any infected person, had done the trick.

"I'm trying to find out when Mr. Nash was infected. Therefore I needed to know how long incubation time usually is."

"And the great Sherlock Holmes needs help for that?"

Sherlock huffed. "I needed data. There's a difference."

"Of course there is. So, who did you text to get the data?"

"John Watson, if you must now. He works at Bart's. Old friend of Mike Stamford's. He introduced us."

Lestrade nodded, apparently surprised. "And he's still talking to you?"

"Obviously".

Then, thankfully, the DI started talking about the case, which Sherlock solved three days later.

On the same night, John was busy cleaning several guns of Sebastian's – apparently the sniper was too lazy to do it himself, so he'd asked John to do it. Well, not exactly asked, simply made it clear that he'd appreciate it if someone else did it for him. And considering his glares whenever Jim beckoned John into another room so they could talk in private, John figured it would be for the best to at least try to appease him.

"Sebby never liked cleaning his guns. He likes to use them, though" Jim said, suddenly standing behind him. By now, John didn't even flinch anymore when that happened.

The consulting criminal was his usual cheerful self, although there was a look in his eyes John hadn't seen before. That was nothing new; Jim was as unpredictable as dangerous.

"I have finally decided how to play my game with Sherlock Holmes" he said happily. "I already told Sebby, and now it's your turn to get instructions."

"Oh, really" John answered, his head spinning, he would have to text Sherlock as soon as he got home –

"Of course, you will only tell dear Sherlock what I deem necessary he should know."

John couldn't think, couldn't breathe, all he could do was stare at Jim, who had his hands in the pockets of his expensive suit, a satisfied smile on his face.

"You didn't think I wouldn't have access to the security footage of St Bart's, did you? Johnny, I am disappointed."

John swallowed, expecting to die any moment.

But, as it turned out, Jim had other plans.

"Don't worry, I am not going to kill you. Despite your obvious lack of criminal energy, you are a valuable asset. And you gave me an idea".

His eyes blazed, and he looked more unhinged than ever.

"You see, I had originally planned your classic psychopath vs not-really-a-scociopath-though-he-tries-to-appear- to-be game, and there will be some sort of challenge – living people strapped to bombs, it will be so much fun! But, wouldn't it be even more fun if we burn out Sherlock Holmes' heart in the process? By making the one person an accomplice to the game that he's trusted from the beginning."

John's mouth was dry. "He doesn't trust me" he said, trying to convince himself of it so Jim would believe him. "He doesn't trust anyone. And most people would tell you he doesn't have a heart".

He'd used the wrong word, he knew it immediately.

Jim waved a hand.

"Oh, Johnny, really, we both know better. I've seen the footage – he trusts you. He trusts you more than you even suspect. I think he considers you a friend, isn't it quaint? So..."

And he told John all about his plan, about using people as hostages, Sherlock having to solve cases in a specific time in order to save them. John would be the one to kidnap them and deck them out with explosives before leaving them at the locations Jim would tell him later.

"Of course, you are to tell Sherlock that you are only a very minor part of the game. You know, the one who gets the explosives, that kind of thing. But should you ever tell him where the hostages are, or the solution of the cases..." and John understood that Jim would tell him who'd killed the victims, simply so John would suffer too, suffer in the knowledge that he was betraying the only man he'd come to trust since he returned from Afghanistan.

"You would die, Johnny, as well as your sister. And Sherlock. Yes, I want Sherlock to be alive at the end of the game – a dead man can't suffer. The same would happen, by the way, if you took the coward's way out. And you wouldn't want to die with the knowledge that you were responsible for Sherlock's death, now, would you?"

John swallowed and shook his head.

Jim beamed. "Wonderful, then we agree. You may sent Sherlock a text – tell him the game is going to start soon, even though you don't know exactly when. It starts in a week, actually. Oh, and don't even try to disguise a message in your text – security footage of Bart's, remember? I hacked into the mobile server, and it didn't take long to find the right number – an unregistered burn phone really, subtlety is not your strength, is it? Bye" and he left.

John had to sit down, the guns forgotten.

He had to betray Sherlock, it was the only way he could save the consulting detective's life, as well as Harry's. Sherlock would think of him as a traitor, as the man who had betrayed his trust, the man who had been and always would be working for his worst enemy.

And that thought hurt him more than he'd imagined it could.


	9. Chapter 9

The next week somehow seemed to pass too quickly and unbearably slowly, at least John thought so. There was nothing he could do to warn Sherlock, he knew; Jim would surely keep an eye on him – once he thought he saw Sebastian out of the corner of his eye and realized that, of course, Jim would send his "favourite sniper" to spy on him – Sebastian was the one man who'd never betray the consulting criminal, who didn't even consider leaving when Jim treated him once again like he didn't matter at all (which he didn't, John was convinced; Sherlock may not be, but Jim clearly was a psychopath).

Sherlock still sent him texts, he answered them, but he didn't smile when he read them anymore, and he certainly wasn't thankful that Sherlock apparently wanted to include him in his life. Jim was reading every single text, he was sure of it, and rejoicing that he'd found the one weakness of the consulting detective.

And John had been the one to show him this weakness. In trying to help Sherlock, he'd only made it worse, made everything worse, and now he would have to sit and wait and watch as a man who could have become a friend, if only their lives had been different, was destroyed by Jim.

That he would be destroyed John couldn't doubt; it didn't matter in which way – whether Jim really only wanted to "burn the heart" out of him, or if he chose to kill him afterwards – but destroyed, in some way, he would be.

But the only chance John had of preventing the worst was to do what Jim told him, to obey the consulting criminal's every command. And, first and foremost, to carry on like nothing had happened, to appear the same to Sherlock.

At first, John had hoped that the consulting detective would realize that he was on edge. That something had gone wrong. Jim couldn't blame him or his sister if Sherlock figured out that he'd found out about their plan.

But Sherlock didn't see any change in John, apparently; maybe because the doctor had already been nervous, because they would try to bring down the most dangerous criminal London had ever seen, maybe because he was too busy to figure out a plan to do just that...

Then, on the third day after Jim's revelation, John realized why Sherlock hadn't noticed and wouldn't notice.

They were in the lab at Bart's during John's lunch break. Sherlock was working on a case, again – something about a murdered man in a locked room, and he was clearly enjoying himself. John watched him doing tests and muttering to himself, feeling more and more worthless with every passing moment.

Suddenly, Sherlock looked up.

"John, what do you make of this?"

He gave John a picture of what appeared to be a small round puncture wound on the murdered man's neck. John frowned.

"Difficult to say, really.. Could be anything. What was the cause of death?"

"Poison" Sherlock looked through his microscope, clearly frustrated. "But I don't know how it was administered, and this puncture could be the answer, if only..."

"Something like a poisoned arrow?" John suggested.

Sherlock looked up, and the doctor added, "Forget it. I'm not a consulting detective, I..."

"No, John, that's it! Not an arrow – maybe some kind of homebuilt gun that shoots something like syringes – and if the murderer had made it look African – the whole room was full of souvenirs from Africa – that's it! He shot him through the window – it was too small to grant anyone access, but a syringe..."

He took out his phone and texted the DI he worked with most of the time – Lestrade, if John remembered correctly – and then he smiled at John.

It was then that the doctor realized why Sherlock didn't suspect anything.

Before, when all he'd had was his suspicion about the consulting detective's heart, a few texts and Jim Moriarty's word, he'd been able to convince himself (against his better judgement, but he'd needed something to hold on to) that his involvement wouldn't break Sherlock. That Jim had been wrong, for once. That there was a chance that Sherlock would win, would save the day and then would walk out of John's life, would forget about him. John didn't like the thought, he couldn't deny that, but it was better than destroying Sherlock.

But now... This was not Sherlock asking a question via a text. This was Sherlock asking for John's opinion about a case, and if the doctor knew anything about the consulting detective, it was how important his work, the cases, were to him. Once Sherlock had texted him just to let him know that his "brain was rotting" because he hadn't had a case in three days.

Now he couldn't fool himself any longer. Jim had been right.

Because Sherlock Holmes, in contrast to Jim Moriarty (really, how could John ever have supposed them to be similar to each other) could trust another person.

And, whether he wanted to or not, he trusted John Watson.

Two weeks ago, John would have been honoured for this confirmation. Now the thought scared him.

He would destroy Sherlock Holmes and there was nothing he could do about it.

Later that day, as he was walking home, trying to clear his head, a black limousine stopped next to him and a young woman opened the door from the inside.

"Get in, Doctor Watson".

He swallowed, realizing that this must be Sherlock's brother's way of introducing himself to people.

And just like that, he started to hope again. After all – Mycroft worked for the British Government and the Secret Service (according to Sherlock, he "was" the British Government and the Secret Service, whatever that meant) and maybe, just maybe, he'd found something out, or he'd at least have him brought somewhere Jim couldn't...

And then John caught sight of a security camera on a building on the other side of the street.

It was turning from left, to right, and left again.

It was, for lack of a better term, _shaking his head_.

Jim was warning him.

And Jim would know if he told Sherlock's brother anything. The man was a human lie detector.

It was hopeless.

So John tried to appear calm and unconcerned when he was brought to an abandoned warehouse where a man in a suit with an umbrella in his hand awaited him.

"Doctor Watson. I suppose my brother told you about me?"

"Yes, Mr. Holmes" John answered, knowing that, should he tell Mycroft anything, the British Government would take measures Jim couldn't fail to notice, and Sherlock and Harry would be dead before the day was over.

"Good, then I think you know what I am capable of. I ensure you, should anything happen to Sherlock, you will pay for it."

With that, he turned around, the umbrella twirling in his hand, and the young woman brought John home.

He knew he was doomed; Mycroft would kill him after the game. But Jim would kill him before the game, if he tried to warn anyone, and not only him. Not even Mycroft could protect Sherlock and Harry, John was sure of it.

This evening, another car with tinted windows picked him up and brought him to Jim. To his surprise, he wasn't brought to a warehouse but to an office building. Sebastian was waiting for him when he arrived.

"You are to go into Jim's office and get your instructions" he spat, jealousy written clearly all over his face, and John wondered how desperate a man must be to cling to the hope that a psychopath would one day return his feelings.

He nodded, and Sebastian turned around and led the way. John had never been in Jim's office, but now he realized it had been stupid to assume that all Jim did was strolling around and sneaking up on his employees. Of course Jim must have a centre for his operations somewhere, and this must be it, judging by Sebastian's expression.

Jim was sitting at his desk, and John was a bit surprised when he realized that, until now, he'd never seen the consulting criminal sit. He'd always been standing, or walking, but he'd never sat down in John's presence before.

"Johnny" he said, smiling. "Sebby, you can leave us alone now".

Sebastian left, closing the door with a little bit more force than necessary.

Jim sighed. "Really, Sebby should know better than to care about a psychopath... Then, again, you would know all about that, wouldn't you, John".

"Sherlock is not a psychopath".

John winced when he realized what he'd said. It had been the only answer he could give, and he'd said it without thinking much about it. Jim grinned maniacally.

"See, now you know I've been right the whole time. By the way, did you tell Big Brother anything?"

"No, I didn't" John answered. Jim studied his face and smiled again, standing up.

"Excellent. I knew you'd be a good little soldier, just like Sebby."

The comparison sent a shiver down John's spine, and Jim laughed. "Sorry, you didn't take that as a compliment, did you? Anyway, since the game is to start in four days, I decided to tell you all about the cases Sherlock will have to solve while I still have the time – I'll be too busy once the game's begun."

So he told him, for the better part of two hours, about the cases he wanted Sherlock to solve. John wasn't surprised that Jim had killed Carl Powers when he'd only been fourteen years old; in fact, he was surprised he hadn't started earlier. Jim seemed to read his mind and explained cheerfully "Until then, it had only been animals, I wanted to practice" before telling him about the clostridium botulinum and Carl's beloved shoes, which he'd give Sherlock, "because he has to have some kind of clue, don't you think so, Johnny?".

And so it went on. He told him about Ian Monkford and Connie Prince and the Vermeer. He told him when he'd have to kidnap each witness, and deck them out with explosives, "With Sebby, of course. We don't want him to get to jealous, and he can keep an eye on you".

John felt drained when he left, Jim's "I'll be in touch" still ringing in his ears. He knew that the first hostage was a woman from Cornwall, that he'd have to pick her up on Sunday evening, that she'd call Sherlock on Monday morning after... after he'd found the shoes.

And after the explosion at Baker Street.

Naturally, he wasn't allowed to warn the consulting detective about the explosion.

The next few days were torture for John, and he hoped against hope that he wouldn't be picked up, but on seven pm on Sunday evening, Sebastian stood at his door, with a ski mask for John, and they were off to kidnap the poor woman and drive her to a parking lot.

After Sebastian had explained the rules to her – only to say what she read of the pager, nothing else, otherwise they'd set off the explosives – they'd left her in the parking lot, abandoning her to the night and her panic, John wishing more than anything that he could help her, he got a text on his burn phone.

It was from Jim.

_I changed my mind. Don't tell Sherlock anything about the explosion, but warn him to stay away from the window. I don't want him hurt. He needs to play._

John bit his lip and sent the text while Sebastian looked at him with a joyful expression in his eyes.

There was nothing to do but try and get Sherlock out alive.

The Game was on.


	10. Chapter 10

Sherlock was waiting for the beginning of the game. In fact, he was impatient for the game to begin. All the cases he'd solved in the past few weeks – even the one with the poisoned man in the locked room – had been utterly mundane in the end, and he felt incredibly bored.

A week ago, John had let him know that the game was to begin "soon", and he was so curious about the consulting criminal that he hadn't flown to Belarus to see whether the case of the British man accused of murdering his wife was worth his while. He had more important things to think about.

He sighed and continued pacing around the flat in his dressing gown, then remembered that John had warned him to stay away from the windows – maybe because of Moriarty's right hand man, Moran, the sniper – and let himself fall down on the sofa.

John had been increasingly – Sherlock didn't know how to put it. He wasn't good at dealing with emotions. But John had somehow seemed nervous and scared, and from time to time, there had been a defeated look in his eyes. Working for Moriarty must finally be getting to him. Despite trying not to be, Sherlock was worried. Only a little bit, as much as he was capable of it, naturally, but he was.

Not that he'd admit it, or tell the doctor. John had other things to worry about. Like finally finding out more about the game, but apparently Moriarty hadn't informed him yet about the tasks he'd have to fulfil during the game. To be honest, it wasn't surprising; John hadn't worked for Moriarty that long, and he'd definitely trust his faithful sniper more than an ex-army doctor.

Sherlock had come so far when suddenly the windows exploded. Luckily, he'd still been lying on the sofa, and Mrs. Hudson had gone out to do some shopping half an hour ago.

He sent a text to Mycroft to let him know that he was alright, in the hope that his brother wouldn't come over, but of course the British Government arrived about an hour later (considering the time of day and the traffic, he must have been at Downing Street). Sherlock had by this time dressed, mainly because there wasn't anything else to do while no one except the experts (Sherlock snorted at the thought; as if he wouldn't be able to find the source of the explosion much quicker) was allowed in the building.

When Mycroft arrived Sherlock was sitting in his chair, holding his violin. He sighed.

"I'm fine".

"And a good day to you too, brother mine. I just felt it was necessary to check that you were unharmed, after all you would sent a text like this to ensure me you were fine as long as you could still type."

"So your cameras got destroyed by the explosion?"

Mycroft didn't answer, and Sherlock didn't need him to. They both knew he was right.

His big brother cleared his throat. "Have you heard anything from Doctor Watson?"

"He told me to keep away from the windows..." Suddenly, Sherlock realized what his brother meant. He'd been too slow; the explosion must have shaken him more than he'd realized.

"Moriarty. It must be the beginning of his game... I take it the Bruce-Partington-plans are safe?"

Mycroft nodded. "Under lock and key. They have been ever since we got word that Moriarty could be interested."

Sherlock nodded, then sighed. "I suppose I will have to wait until..."

His phone rang. It was Lestrade; apparently, they had found something in the flat. Sherlock jumped out of his chair and left 221B without telling Mycroft where he was going, but he didn't doubt that his brother would be informed of all his movements.

Lestrade was waiting for him at the Yard. "You look the funny ones, don't you?"

"Obviously. What have you got?"

"The explosion at Baker Street this morning..."

"Not an accident" Sherlock drawled.

Lestrade raised an eyebrow. "How did you know that? Right, silly question. Anyway, there was a strongbox in the flat, and in the strongbox..."

He indicated an envelope lying on the table, Sherlock's name on it.

Sherlock was only mildly interested at first – really, the message of a criminal mastermind, addressed to him? That was far from original.

He had to admit, however, that the smart phone was a good idea. And the idea with the hostages was simply elegant. And if he felt, just for one moment, worry that he wouldn't be able to solve the case in time, he deleted it.

He would have liked to contact John, but now that the game had started Moriarty would most likely keep an even better eye on his associates.

John couldn't have answered him anyway; Sebastian was keeping an eye on him, and he had to kidnap the next hostage. This time, it was a man in London, and not enough that he had to endanger the life of one person, he had to put him right in the middle of Piccadilly Circus. Naturally, they didn't accompany him there; they parked their van at a street not far off, and Sebastian shoved him out, telling the hostage that he was to stand in Piccadilly Circus and wait for instructions, if he didn't want to be blown up right there and then, and John watched him go, hating himself more than ever, feeling Sebastian's triumphant glare in his back.

Since Jim had told them that he wanted them to come pick him up, they went to his office next, where the consulting criminal cheerfully told them to "get a good breakfast" because they "had time". Apparently Sherlock hadn't yet solved the first case – the murder of Carl Powers – and John's heart sank. He didn't doubt that the consulting detective could do it – but he'd seen the woman's face, he'd seen the man's face, he'd seen what they were going through.

Sebastian dragged him to a café.

"I'm glad Jim gave us a bit of time. I haven't eaten since this whole thing started." And the sniper happily dug into his breakfast. John couldn't have eaten if he'd tried. Sebastian did his best to convince him to take a bite, but he declined – as politely as he could, Sebastian could be quite unpredictable too – every time.

"Come on, John, it's not that bad. Working for Jim is fun. You can't deny that you stopped limping."

No, he couldn't, and if possible, he resented Jim and Sebastian even more for the fact.

"And, after all, Sherlock Holmes is on the boring side. There is no need to cry over him."

John clenched his teeth. What he wanted to answer was "And there is no need to follow someone who uses you as long as you do what he says around like a love-sick puppy", but he didn't. He had enough problems, he didn't Sebastian to be angry at him. Especially if the sniper was already jealous because he wasn't allowed to kidnap the hostages on his own.

Sebastian poked him with a finger. "Cheer up. At least you'll never be bored, and you'll always have enough money".

"And no conscience anymore, looking at you".

"Conscience is just the trade-name of cowardice".

It was clear that he'd never get Sebastian to realize that what he did was wrong, so John stayed silent for the rest of the breakfast, his thoughts with Sherlock. What was the consulting detective doing at the moment? Had he probably already solved the case?

And, more importantly, what would happen if he solved all the cases? Jim had talked about "destroying" Sherlock of "burning the heart out of him", but until now, he hadn't told John anything specific.

Sherlock, unbeknownst to John, had by this time realized that some kind of poison must have killed Carl, and was in the process of identifying the poison as clostridium botulinum.

Lestrade was telling him about the woman, Sherlock's mind already busy anticipating Moriarty's next move, when Donavan gave him a phone, and he was off to solve the next case.

Shortly afterwards, John and Sebastian where decking out the old blind woman with explosives, John trying his best to at least make her comfortable (knowing it was useless, she must be terrified), while Jim was telling her what to do.

The consulting criminal usually preferred to have other people do the dirty work for him – John had never seen or heard him torturing anyone – but it wasn't difficult to understand why he was suddenly standing in the woman's flat.

He was happy to inflict pain, not by torture, but by fear. There was a maniacal light in his eyes, and his grin was even bigger than usual, something Sebastian obviously found very attractive, judging by the looks he shot him, while it made John want to strangle him slowly.

At least Jim had had the decency (John thought that was how the consulting criminal saw it) to tell John that Sherlock was by now busy with Monkford's car, and since he was about to give him a tip, it wouldn't be long before the old woman was needed while he was investigating Connie Prince's murder.

Later, when he heard that she'd started to describe Jim's voice, and learned that twelve people had died, John would wonder if, perhaps, Jim had wanted this to happen. Maybe he'd wanted a few victims; maybe he would have been bored otherwise, and that was why he'd talked to the old woman, because he had counted on the fact that she'd start to describe him, that the temptation would be too strong.

He didn't sleep that night; he couldn't, remembering the looks on the faces of the people he'd put into bomb vests, knowing that Sherlock was waiting for someone to find the body of the security guard of the museum, and thinking about the little boy Sebastian had kidnapped and was looking after at the moment – apparently Jim didn't trust John with this, and he was right, because the doctor didn't know what he would have done if he'd seen the boy.

He was forced to listen, though, in the room next to the one they kept the boy in, when Sherlock had to find out why the Vermeer was a fake during a countdown. Thankfully, he made it in time.

Jim came out, happily calling to Sebastian to "bring the boy somewhere they can find him", then looking at John.

"Now we wait for Sherlock's invitation."

"Sorry, what?" John asked, confused.

"We both know, Johnny, that Sherlock loves his cases. And now that he's solved so many, he'll want to meet me in person. And I think it's only fair to let him pick a time and a place".

John swallowed, hoping against his better knowledge of Sherlock's character that the consulting detective wouldn't want to meet Jim.

Later that evening, Sherlock was sitting in his flat, frustrated that Moriarty hadn't been in touch and that he didn't know what John was doing, and if the doctor was okay, and angry at himself that he was even thinking about something like this.

Finally he had enough.

He opened his homepage and typed in a message.

_Time to play in person. The pool, midnight._

John really wasn't surprised that Jim put him into a vest full of explosives too, in fact, he was strangely calm. All he wanted was to, somehow, get Sherlock out of this alive; his own life wasn't worth much to him at the moment.

Even if Sherlock escaped (and he prayed and hoped that he didn't mean as much to the consulting detective as Jim thought he did), John would be stuck working for the consulting criminal until Jim grew bored of him.

Jim adjusted the earpiece, and John wondered for a moment how Sebastian, who was, with other snipers, hidden in the shadows with a rifle, would like that Jim decided to touch him. At least he wasn't there to see it.

"Well, Johnny boy, you know how this works..."

John nodded just as the heard a door open, and Jim grinned.

Then John heard Sherlock's voice and realized how much he'd missed it.

"Hello. I do hope you are punctual, I hate being kept waiting."

Jim walked off after giving John a little shove, apparently wandering to another door to make a more dramatic entry.

John, knowing what was expected of him, took a deep breath and walked through the door, facing Sherlock.


	11. Chapter 11

Sherlock had expected to meet Moriarty that night. He had expected to come face to face with a brilliant man, just like him. Someone who got bored easily, someone who needed distractions. Someone fascinating, for a change.

True, he had expected John to be there, but rather in a minor capacity, probably as a sniper in the background, and, against his will, it had made him feel almost safe, the knowledge that a fr... an associate would be there.

But then John stepped out of the shadows and his breath caught in his throat.

He didn't think that –

He wouldn't –

He'd never thought about the possibility that John could be Moriarty, and he cursed his stupidity. It was an excellent, and elegant plan to decide to play the traitor, to spy on the consulting detective without him suspecting anything...

"Evening. This is a turn up, isn't it Sherlock" John said, face blank.

And suddenly, there was a new thought swirling through Sherlock's mind, although he almost missed it in his confusion. He'd heard Moriarty talk – only through the hostages, but he'd heard the way he talked – and the consulting criminal should be happier to see him. Especially if he'd been fooling Sherlock all the time. He should be triumphant.

Still confused, Sherlock took a few steps towards John.

"Bet you never saw this coming".

John opened the jacket he was wearing and Sherlock saw the Semtex vest.

_Of course._

Moriarty must have found out that John was planning to bring him down with Sherlock's help. And, somehow, although the consulting detective didn't know why, he must have realized that the doctor, despite his best tries not to, meant something to him.

And now he had a hostage Sherlock, for lack of a better word, cared about (because, naturally, he hadn't cared about the others. Not much, at least. It wouldn't have helped him to solve the cases).

The game had just taken a turn the consulting detective couldn't have predicted.

Naturally, he'd thought, sometimes, about Moriarty finding out what was going on, but the worst case scenario (that had actually bothered him, he'd been forced to admit to himself after he'd realized that he would feel some kind of pain afterwards) was Moriarty killing John, maybe (again, the thought had greatly bothered him) torturing him first, to state an example.

Not Moriarty using John in this way.

Why had he even suspected...

Sherlock knew what he had allowed John to tell Moriarty; there was no reason for John to make their relationship a part of the conversation; there was no reason for him to –

Unless –

Suddenly, this possibility hurt a lot worse than John simply being his archenemy, and Sherlock couldn't say why.

But maybe...

A voice interrupted his thoughts.

"You know, I confess I am a little I am disappointed. I was expecting a better reaction from thinking your _friend_ was the consulting criminal you've been chasing for months all along. But don't worry" and a slim man with black hair, wearing a Westwood suit walked slowly through the door almost immediately opposite Sherlock, "I can soon fix that. Jim Moriarty. Hello".

John didn't turn around, knowing well enough that Jim was going to wear the expression he always used in serious discussions – when he wasn't grinning maniacally. He was looking at Sherlock, hoping, praying, wishing that he'd read the signs wrong. Maybe even thinking that it would be better after all if Sherlock was the sociopath he proclaimed to be; you couldn't burn out a heart that didn't exist. If Sherlock didn't care about him, he could beat Jim – John didn't doubt it, hadn't doubted it, to be honest, ever since he'd first seen him – and walk out alive.

John didn't care much what happened to him anymore – his life was screwed up anyway – and, he suddenly realized, he was more afraid for Sherlock than for Harry's life. It might make him a bad brother, but it might have made him a good friend. If he hadn't met Sebastian in that bar all those months ago. If he hadn't come when the sniper called him. If he hadn't been an adrenaline junkie desperate for a fix, any fix.

Jim started talking again and John knew what was coming. He didn't look at Sherlock, whose attention, for now, thankfully, was fixed on Jim, and who had at least brought a weapon (a Browning, apparently), that was at the moment trained on the consulting criminal.

"I admit, you solved the cases – the old woman was simply stupid, and the others were collateral damage – so I probably should have predicted that you wouldn't fall for the "John is Moriarty"-trick so easily" Jim said, and John recognized the cheerful tone he'd come to fear almost as much as the death threats.

Then he added, "But still, you should know what your new little friend has been up to."

With a few quick steps, he was right behind John and ripped the vest of, letting it slide a few metres behind him on the tiles, and the doctor had to admit that, despite everything, it was a relief to get the bomb of his body.

"Johnny boy, do you want to explain it yourself or should I?"

John knew he should be the one to talk to Sherlock; maybe he could give him some sort of signal, use the wrong word, blink a morse code or something like that (he was aware that he was getting desperate, but he couldn't help it). But when he finally looked up and met Sherlock's eyes, he found that he couldn't say a word. The consulting detective's eyes had widened and John could clearly see – when had he started to read Sherlock that well? When had he become able to read his face like this? – that he was, perhaps unconsciously, fighting against the deduction he was bound to make, and it was strangely touching to see this man fighting against his own thoughts.

John couldn't say it. He would let something slip, and Jim would give Sebastian the signal and Sherlock would be dead, and Harry would be dead, and John would be dead, too, if the consulting criminal didn't decide that he'd have to live with what he'd done a while longer.

No. Let Jim do it. Let Jim destroy Sherlock (he tried to ignore the way his stomach clenched at the thought), and then try and remind him of his promise not to kill him. Though, knowing him the way John did, it was doubtful he'd keep it.

Jim took a deep breath and, John was sure, though he stood behind him, grinned maniacally. "John here was the one to kidnap the hostages and deck them out with explosives, Sherlock. He only told you the information he was allowed to. And he did it all without complaint, you know. He enjoyed it. Just like I did. Didn't you, Johnny dear?"

A red dot Sherlock didn't seem to be aware of appeared on the white shirt of the consulting detective, and John knew that he had to lie to save his life, so he looked at Sherlock and nodded, telling (but failing to convince himself) that he was imagining the hurt in his fr – in Sherlock's eyes.

Sherlock had to admit that it hurt quite a bit, to realize that he'd thought when he saw Moriarty rip off the vest was correct. In a way, it hurt like nothing had ever hurt him before, and he swallowed, while still keeping the gun steady and not looking at John.

Surprisingly, the thought that Mycroft had been right all along wasn't what hurt the most. What hurt the most was the fact that he'd simply trusted someone, trusted someone without a reason, without thinking about it, and it had blown up right in his face, just like he'd always known it would.

He'd been aware, from the very beginning, that he shouldn't trust John Watson, and yet he had.

Only to find out that the man he'd trusted had been kidnapping the hostages, was probably even responsible for the old woman's death; that he'd only told Sherlock what Moriarty had allowed him to; that he'd most likely only come to Baker Street on the consulting criminal's orders.

Now he had to live with the consequences.

But, first and foremost, he had to get out of this situation alive.

And then –

He didn't want to think about the future. It would lead to nothing.

As would speculating what would have happened if he'd met John under different circumstances. This part of his life – his last, definitely his last, attempt (though he'd not undertaken it willingly, it had just happened) to make a friend was over and done with.

Moriarty patted John's arm, and the doctor managed barely not to flinch. He had to keep up the facade. Sherlock noticed the almost flinch, but told himself that John simply didn't like to be touched.

"Why don't you go home? You may even throw the bomb in the pool on your way out. Sherlock and I won't need it for our discussion".

John turned around, looking Sherlock in the eyes one last time, realizing that he'd never see him again, and that being allowed to throw the bomb in the pool was Jim's way of letting him know that he'd keep his promise.

Or not.

Just as John grabbed the vest carefully, he realized something else.

How often had Jim treated Sebastian almost nice and then contemptuously in the same hour? And hadn't he told John that he'd "changed his mind" about warning Sherlock?

The consulting criminal was changeable.

And if John should walk out now and he'd kill Sherlock...

The doctor would never forgive himself.

So he slowly let the bomb sink on the other end of the pool, making sure that there was a detonator you had to press to set it off (and that no sniper could hide in a way to set it off with a shot) and then walked back, coming to stand beside Sherlock.

He could see the consulting detective's confused look out of the corner of his eye, and Jim grinned more manically than he'd ever seen him, and could tell that the consulting criminal was overjoyed with the developments. Which was probably why

"What are you doing there?"

"What I should have done a long time ago. Choosing the sight I want to be on."

Jim laughed, and it was then that John took his chance.

In one quick move, he grabbed Sherlock's gun and gave the surprised consulting detective a strong enough shove to send him in the pool.

He raised the gun and fired.

Moriarty fell to the ground, a bullet between his eyes. Another shot rang out, and John felt a burning pain in his chest.

Suddenly he was lying on the floor, hearing voices and slamming doors, and then it was...raining on him?

Sherlock was kneeling over him, dripping water all over John's body. John tried to focus on his face, but the edge of his vision was already being consumed by darkness, and he knew he wouldn't be able to stay conscious much longer.

Or alive, for that matter.

But Sherlock lived, and Moriarty's gang had flown to – why? Moriarty must have given them instructions, most likely to take over his empire... They'd automatically run, obeyed the last command of their leader, probably after Moran had told them what to do, who must have, in his shock that his beloved Jim was dead, forgotten about the consulting detective in the pool. Or, maybe, John started to theorize, Jim had ordered to make Sherlock Holmes suffer, as had been his intention all along, not to kill him. And John dying on the ground probably fulfilled that promise. He didn't doubt that it was Moran who'd shot him.

Whatever had happened, Sherlock was alive.

 _Harry_.

The thought came suddenly, and John croaked out his sister's name.

Sherlock squeezed his hand, and said something that sounded like "text.. Mycroft... had stand-by team, because he reads my homepage..." Either way, John was suddenly sure that his sister was safe.

As was Sherlock.

There was only one thing left to do.

"Sh – Sherlock" he whispered, the darkness coming closer and closer, and the pain burning more every second, "S—Sorry".

The last thing he heard was the consulting detective's voice.

"John, we can talk about this once you've recovered... John? John!"

The last thing he thought was that he was rather glad to be dying in his company.


	12. Chapter 12

Later, Sherlock would blame the fact that he had let himself be blinded by sentiment for suddenly being shoved into the pool without offering much resistance. He had still been shocked at John's betrayal, trying to figure out how to survive, when the doctor had suddenly walked back and stood beside him, and he had attempted to understand what had prompted this sudden change of loyalties, if maybe it was another plan –

When John had pushed him into the pool and he'd realized that the doctor was going to kill Moriarty, or to die trying, just so he could be safe –

And then John had shot the consulting criminal, while Sherlock had been watching, having just surfaced in the middle of the pool, careful not to disturb the bomb, and he should have bemoaned the loss of the best adversary he was ever likely to have, but he didn't. Instead, he attempted to scramble out of the pool, wet, cold, frantic, his only thought to get to John, to –

To prevent what happened while he was still trying to grip the edge of the pool to heave himself up, but because his hands were wet, it kept slipping out of his grasp –

And he knew what had happened when he heard the shot, but he refused to believe it. Against his better knowledge, because he didn't want it to happen, he refused to believe it.

Although because he knew that, if he stayed underwater at least one of them had a chance to survive, he stayed pressed to the wall of the pool (though his head was above the water) until he heard Moriarty's associates leaving.

He climbed out of the pool as soon as the door closed, not really caring if anyone had been left in the building (although later, he'd claim that he'd checked, neither Mycroft nor Lestrade or Mrs. Hudson believing him), and, while he hated the expression, he couldn't deny that it felt as if his heart missed a beat when he saw John lying on the floor, a gunshot wound in his chest, dangerously close to his heart.

And, considering that he'd chosen Sherlock over Moriarty, that he'd been prepared to die, just to be on "the side he wanted to be on", he deserved Sherlock's attention.

Or that's what Sherlock would say, later, when ´his brother asked him why he had looked after a dying man instead of following Moriarty's henchmen.

But the truth was that he simply couldn't let John alone, it didn't matter that he couldn't do anything to stop the bleeding and save him. It didn't matter that John probably didn't even realize he was there and was just mumbling words that happened to flitter through his brain. There was nothing Sherlock could do, other than keep him company.

Except to text Mycroft – he'd never been more happy about the plastic cover (water resistant) he always put on his smart when going anywhere it might be particularly wet, and the pool where Jim Moriarty had killed Carl Powers had certainly deserved this distinction.

John had a sister – a sister he had told him about, during one of their meetings (and Sherlock tried to ignore the thought that he'd told him about her casually, in a half-sentence, _like one would tell a friend, like one would tell someone one trusted)_ , a sister Moriarty must have threatened, since otherwise, John would have told Sherlock all about the plan; after all, he had to have known that taking the consulting detective's side would most likely result in his death.

Sherlock swallowed as he was texting. No one had ever done something like this for him; it was true, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade (and Mycroft, though he didn't like to admit it to himself) cared about him. But making sure he was safe while at the same time knowing that one would take the bullet – no. No one had ever done it for him, and it was highly unlikely, judging from John's condition, that it would happen again. Suddenly, it became difficult to breathe, and Sherlock shook his head while finally sending the text, trying to get rid of the obstruction in his throat.

_Send an ambulance to the pool Carl Powers died in. John has been shot. And have your stand-by team protect Harry Watson.  
S_

There was no need to tell Mycroft that Sherlock knew that his brother checked his homepage, or rather had his homepage checked, every hour; they were both aware of it. He didn't doubt that Harry Watson would be safe, and that the ambulance would arrive in a matter of minutes.

Minutes John Watson didn't have.

He was bleeding out, and Sherlock was leaning over him, dripping water over him, but he couldn't help it, he had to look, to try, to save John by just being there, even though it was hopeless.

John croaked out his sister's name, and Sherlock told him that he'd texted Mycroft, though he was rather sure that the doctor, who was by now clearly losing consciousness, didn't understand.

Somehow, his hand found John's and he squeezed just as his – friend's eyes closed for what would most likely be the last time.

The door burst open and the paramedics rushed on. Sherlock was shoved out of the way for the second time that night, though he didn't land in the pool this time, and stood up, feeling a bit light-headed.

John was wheeled out of the room, and Sherlock, realizing that he couldn't drive with him to the hospital, and that he would have to wait for information either way, slowly made his way to Moriarty's body. The game had been a good one, and he had to make sure that he was dead. He was.

The consulting criminal still wore the last expression his face had shown; it was one of surprise. Sherlock wondered why he didn't cherish it as much as he would have, as he should have, simply because –

There was no "simply" about it. A good man was dying because of him. _For_ him.

He felt Mycroft's presence before he turned around.

His brother was standing a few feet behind him, looking strangely out of place in his expensive suit, his always faithful umbrella at his sight. He looked into Sherlock's eyes and slowly walked towards him, finally standing next to him, looking down on Moriarty's body.

Then he said "I was just informed that two people were going to enter Harry Watson's flat to kill her when the team arrived. They are in custody, and she doesn't suspect a thing."

"Thank you" Sherlock said, because he couldn't say anything else, because he was afraid to ask whether John had already been dead when they wheeled him out.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow, surprised, then looked at the body again.

"Good shot".

"You said he was a good soldier" Sherlock confirmed.

They were silent for a few moments, then he took a deep breath and asked, "Is he – "

"Not yet" Mycroft answered with the honesty he only reserved for his brother. Sherlock flinched, and his brother seemed to see something new in him, all of a sudden, and added, "He was brought to a private hospital. Most people don't know it exists".

Secret Service, then. Sherlock nodded.

"I'll take you to him".

Sherlock nodded again and followed his brother.

The stayed silent, all the way to the hospital, all the way into the waiting room, Sherlock half-expecting to hear upon arrival that John was dead, but the doctor told them that he was still in surgery, still holding on.

John Watson was nothing if not strong, and Sherlock realized too late that he'd started to allow himself to hope. Now he couldn't stop.

And it would hurt worse than if he hadn't when John died.

He forced himself to think "when", not "if", because the injury was most likely fatal and he wanted to be prepared, ignoring the part of him that told him he wouldn't be prepared anyway.

Mycroft sat next to him, for once lost for words, and Sherlock would have enjoyed it immensely, should have enjoyed it immensely, but he couldn't.

Mycroft spoke just once.

"He's an extraordinary man" he said.

"Yes" Sherlock answered.

"He's your friend".

And, again, Sherlock replied, this time much more quietly, "Yes", and Mycroft squeezed his shoulder, just once, so quickly Sherlock could have imagined it.

After hours and hours, the door Sherlock had tried not to stare at opened and a surgeon walked out.

Sherlock stood up, seeing Mycroft do the same out of the corner of his eye.

This was it.

John remembered well how he'd woken up after being shot; he remembered the confusion, the not knowing where he was, the fear.

This time, there was none of that. He knew he must be in hospital, he knew he had been shot, and he knew Sherlock had made it out.

But the first thing he registered was surprise that he was alive after all.

His second thought was whether Sherlock was nearby.

His third (and he decided that he'd feel guilty for it later) was Harry.

Then, he heard a voice he would have known anywhere.

"She's fine. Mycroft's people caught the assassins".

John opened his eyes and found Sherlock sitting next to his bed, looking tired. Apparently he'd stayed at his bedside for...

"How long?" John asked.

"Three days" Sherlock answered, "and they didn't know whether you'd make it on the first."

John would have nodded if his whole body hadn't felt like lead. Instead, he smiled.

Sherlock smiled back.

"Thank you. For Harry".

Sherlock shook his head. "I should thank you".

Then, John realized something else.

"Am I under arrest?"

"No. Mycroft understood that I would not be pleased if you should be prosecuted. The Pool never happened."

"Good, then" John answered. Then, he looked at the consulting detective. "Sherlock... I never wanted..."

"I know".

"No, hear me out, please" John said, because he wanted Sherlock to know. "If I hadn't done what Jim told me, he'd have killed you and Harry. And me."

Sherlock looked surprised, and John cherished the look on his face.

"Me? That was a threat?"

"Of course it was" John said immediately. "I couldn't let you die."

Sherlock stood up and walked over to the window, and John was suddenly sure that the consulting detective was touched and didn't know what to say.

But then Sherlock did say something, and it was in such a matter-of-fact tone that John couldn't help but smile.

"I'm glad you didn't die."

"Thanks, me too". But there was a question, in fact the question, John had to ask, because he couldn't bear the thought that Sherlock would just walk out the door and his life, now that he knew the doctor would be fine.

"What happens now?"

Sherlock turned around and answered, still matter-of-factly.

"You recover. And afterwards... Well, you need a certain amount of adrenaline to feel happy, that much is obvious. And I need a flatmate so Mycroft can't force me to take boring cases because I owe him for paying part of the rent. You can have the room that is currently my laboratory. I'll conduct my experiments in the kitchen."

There were many things John could have said, like "Are you sure?" or "That's not healthy" or "Actually, I was thinking about leading a more normal life now", but only one thing he wanted to say.

"Sounds great".

Sherlock grinned, and John grinned back, because there was nothing else to do.

"Our first case" Sherlock announced, "Will be to catch Sebastian Moran".

"I'm looking forward to it" John replied.

And he truly was.

Because, looking at Sherlock, and the consulting detective looking back at him –

He felt like the universe had righted itself, like they were finally what they were supposed to be all along.

Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson.

Best friends and partners in crime.

Two parts of whole.


End file.
